Fic: Vanishing (James)
Fandom: POTC
Title: Vanishing
Rating: PG
Characters: James, small appearance by Will
Summary: Fix-it fic. James contemplates life and death.
Disclaimer: To my misfortune, they don't belong to me.
Time has slowed down, its long tendrils stretching out in endless fathoms, weaving through James’s mind like fog bound to a ship. Standing at the forecastle, his hands fast to the rail, he looks down at the bottomless black surging around the prow of the ship. Small eddies surge up with the ship’s motion, white frost cresting upwards for a second before being swallowed by the deep once more. He stares at it for hours, days; it doesn’t matter. Day and night have no more meaning in this place. The hollow light of the sun and the coldness of the moon is all the same to skin that can no longer feel. The waves lap at the hull, losing themselves among the barnacles encrusted on the pale wood. He remembers a young girl standing at the fore of another ship long ago, much like he stood now, singing a distinctive pirate tune that whispers along his ear. He smiles, but it’s not really a smile. It’s a spectre, a ghost of old memory, like the rest of his wasted life. Things that he used to prize so dearly have slipped away like the sun dipping below the horizon, surrendering its golden glow for the cool white of the stars glimmering overhead. The breeze brings no refreshment. It glides over him, a second’s caress too brief to notice. He doesn’t mind. There are very few things that bother him now. Sometimes he thinks about pitching himself forward and falling back into the murky water that the crew had fished him out of, to float forever between these two worlds, one shut away from him, the other lurking much too close.
He feels the movement around him: the shuffle of feet, the creaking of the lines in the pull of an inaudible wind, the murmur of not only the crew, but the other ghosts as well, those who are like him, and yet not. An insurmountable distance lies between them and him. They are free from the bindings that held them fast to their lives, free to be at peace, to seek that eternal rest promised to all souls who have done good deeds in their lives and not caused the misery that James is certain will condemn him. Not so with him. There is an itch right above his bellybutton where the metal thrust through his flesh. A pulse, strong and steady that recalls him to the earth that had once gripped his feet and the salty breeze that had played with his hair, murmuring wild comforts in his ears since he was a wee lad on his first commission as midshipman. It was so long ago, yet it burns in his memory, harsh and sweet and his hands grip the rail tighter. More memories surge up: the burn of rum in his throat as he downed his first tankard to the cheer of his shipmates; the bite of the noon sun as he first entered Caribbean waters; his joy at receiving his first command. And then, more recently, far too recently, the bitter sweetness of hearing Elizabeth agree to marry him just to save the life of another man. The man she truly loved. It stung, hurt like few things ever had.
That very man, now captain of the ship that had taken his life, had greeted him when he was dragged from his watery limbo to the harsh air of consciousness. He didn’t find it odd. It all seems to make some strange sense in the madness that’s the world. He, Turner, stares at him at times, the heat of his eyes falling uncertainly on James’s back. He’s been keeping a close watch on him since he boarded, as has the other one, the man who killed him, who he now realizes is William Turner senior. He feels no anger towards the later. He’d been willing to die for his sins, though being near him does feel slightly uncomfortable. But it’s the son that he senses most often. He’d once felt a resentment toward him that rivaled the one he felt toward Jack Sparrow, a feverish pulse entangled with his love for Elizabeth, but it’s faded away now, bleached by the sun smoking above the dark horizon.
Turner had spoken to him; he remembered it clearly. He’d thanked him for saving Elizabeth, a gratitude James didn’t want. Elizabeth had always been his greatest treasure, even after he’d realized that she’d never be his own. He’d rescued her for her own sake and no one else’s.
But Turner had also said something else, something that sticks with James even as the rest of his concerns wither in the mist.
“I can give you a choice. If you wish, you can remain aboard the ship as part of my crew. If at any time you want to leave, you’re free to do so.”
Free. Such a strange word, rife with tumultuous meaning, most of which had little importance in his own life, as he’d had the unfortunate displeasure of discovering. He thought he’d been free, as free as any man could ever be while still leading a lawful life. He’d done his duty, the one thing that he’d believed he wanted, the guiding principle of his existence, then he threw it all away because of one pirate. And then, in a moment of desperation, he sold his soul to the devil for a shade, a whisper of his former life, which tasted sour and ashen on his tongue. When had he ever been free?
The wind quickens, a change that brings even James’s eyes up from the rushing waters to the
lightening horizon. At the edge, the sun rises, bathing the sea in a golden sheen, painting the dark water with orange streaks that shimmer with a calmness that James has never felt before. To starboard, where the brilliance of the sun is just beginning to reach, a long green isle rises above the cloud dappled sky, shrouded in white mist. He pays no attention to the flurry of movement at his back, his eyes fixed on that island, hardly aware of how its size increases on the horizon until it engulfs most of his vision. The sheet of fog conceals the entire coastline. Only a wide dock is visible, jutting out into the increasingly blue water. Its worn, grey planks glisten with the spray of the surf, the first steps toward the afterlife hidden in the nature of each individual soul.
They drop anchor and lower the gangplank. The other ghosts start making their way down, their expressionless faces appearing more solid in the light of this new sun. James looks down at his own hands on the rail and frowns when he sees how firmly they grip the wood beneath them. He lifts one of them. Its former grey-white sheen is fading, a new pinkish hue taking its place. He feels strength cradled within his folded fingers, rising from someplace inside him that he didn’t know still existed. Suddenly, he notices the mustard yellow sleeve covering his wrist. He hadn’t been aware of his uniform since before arriving here.
A pair of heavy boots shuffle behind him. He hadn’t even heard him approach. There is only one person who would come up to him at this of all moments, yet he doesn’t turn around, his eyes fixed on a frayed, golden thread sticking out from beside one of the buttons on the coat. It shivers in the breeze, long and fragile.
“Mr. Norrington,” Turner calls out.
James turns around slowly, acknowledging him with a small nod. Will Turner looks at him with a kind smile, his hair held back with a bandanna James hadn’t seen before. His appearance has changed so much, as had the light in his eyes. It’s sterner, more bitter, much like James’s own heart feels.
“I need your decision,” Turner says. “You can go ashore and seek your eternal rest or you can remain on the ship. I’d be more than happy to have you as part of the crew. You shouldn’t have died the way you did.”
James suspects that this is an apology for his father’s actions. The deep regret in Turner’s eyes confirms it.
He glances at his sleeve again, then lowers his arm. The deck is nearly empty of ghosts. The quiet footfalls on the gangplank will soon fade away and it shall be his turn. The hat on his head feels heavy. He takes it off, stares at the golden lace lining its border and throws it overboard, not bothering to look where it may fall. He tugs the wig off as well and feels his freed hair, the strands cool despite being imprisoned by the wig. Something stirs inside him, a whisper that rises into a sharp beat, calling out to him. He doesn’t want to go into the island, he knows this now.
Will watches him expectantly. James holds out his hand.
“ I suppose that it makes some sense for me to haunt the ship I died on,” James said, holding out his hand. “I accept your offer, Captain Turner.”
Turner shakes his hand, his smile widening, and James feels warmth seep through his body again.
Feedback and con-crit is greatly appreciated
Title: Vanishing
Rating: PG
Characters: James, small appearance by Will
Summary: Fix-it fic. James contemplates life and death.
Disclaimer: To my misfortune, they don't belong to me.
Time has slowed down, its long tendrils stretching out in endless fathoms, weaving through James’s mind like fog bound to a ship. Standing at the forecastle, his hands fast to the rail, he looks down at the bottomless black surging around the prow of the ship. Small eddies surge up with the ship’s motion, white frost cresting upwards for a second before being swallowed by the deep once more. He stares at it for hours, days; it doesn’t matter. Day and night have no more meaning in this place. The hollow light of the sun and the coldness of the moon is all the same to skin that can no longer feel. The waves lap at the hull, losing themselves among the barnacles encrusted on the pale wood. He remembers a young girl standing at the fore of another ship long ago, much like he stood now, singing a distinctive pirate tune that whispers along his ear. He smiles, but it’s not really a smile. It’s a spectre, a ghost of old memory, like the rest of his wasted life. Things that he used to prize so dearly have slipped away like the sun dipping below the horizon, surrendering its golden glow for the cool white of the stars glimmering overhead. The breeze brings no refreshment. It glides over him, a second’s caress too brief to notice. He doesn’t mind. There are very few things that bother him now. Sometimes he thinks about pitching himself forward and falling back into the murky water that the crew had fished him out of, to float forever between these two worlds, one shut away from him, the other lurking much too close.
He feels the movement around him: the shuffle of feet, the creaking of the lines in the pull of an inaudible wind, the murmur of not only the crew, but the other ghosts as well, those who are like him, and yet not. An insurmountable distance lies between them and him. They are free from the bindings that held them fast to their lives, free to be at peace, to seek that eternal rest promised to all souls who have done good deeds in their lives and not caused the misery that James is certain will condemn him. Not so with him. There is an itch right above his bellybutton where the metal thrust through his flesh. A pulse, strong and steady that recalls him to the earth that had once gripped his feet and the salty breeze that had played with his hair, murmuring wild comforts in his ears since he was a wee lad on his first commission as midshipman. It was so long ago, yet it burns in his memory, harsh and sweet and his hands grip the rail tighter. More memories surge up: the burn of rum in his throat as he downed his first tankard to the cheer of his shipmates; the bite of the noon sun as he first entered Caribbean waters; his joy at receiving his first command. And then, more recently, far too recently, the bitter sweetness of hearing Elizabeth agree to marry him just to save the life of another man. The man she truly loved. It stung, hurt like few things ever had.
That very man, now captain of the ship that had taken his life, had greeted him when he was dragged from his watery limbo to the harsh air of consciousness. He didn’t find it odd. It all seems to make some strange sense in the madness that’s the world. He, Turner, stares at him at times, the heat of his eyes falling uncertainly on James’s back. He’s been keeping a close watch on him since he boarded, as has the other one, the man who killed him, who he now realizes is William Turner senior. He feels no anger towards the later. He’d been willing to die for his sins, though being near him does feel slightly uncomfortable. But it’s the son that he senses most often. He’d once felt a resentment toward him that rivaled the one he felt toward Jack Sparrow, a feverish pulse entangled with his love for Elizabeth, but it’s faded away now, bleached by the sun smoking above the dark horizon.
Turner had spoken to him; he remembered it clearly. He’d thanked him for saving Elizabeth, a gratitude James didn’t want. Elizabeth had always been his greatest treasure, even after he’d realized that she’d never be his own. He’d rescued her for her own sake and no one else’s.
But Turner had also said something else, something that sticks with James even as the rest of his concerns wither in the mist.
“I can give you a choice. If you wish, you can remain aboard the ship as part of my crew. If at any time you want to leave, you’re free to do so.”
Free. Such a strange word, rife with tumultuous meaning, most of which had little importance in his own life, as he’d had the unfortunate displeasure of discovering. He thought he’d been free, as free as any man could ever be while still leading a lawful life. He’d done his duty, the one thing that he’d believed he wanted, the guiding principle of his existence, then he threw it all away because of one pirate. And then, in a moment of desperation, he sold his soul to the devil for a shade, a whisper of his former life, which tasted sour and ashen on his tongue. When had he ever been free?
The wind quickens, a change that brings even James’s eyes up from the rushing waters to the
lightening horizon. At the edge, the sun rises, bathing the sea in a golden sheen, painting the dark water with orange streaks that shimmer with a calmness that James has never felt before. To starboard, where the brilliance of the sun is just beginning to reach, a long green isle rises above the cloud dappled sky, shrouded in white mist. He pays no attention to the flurry of movement at his back, his eyes fixed on that island, hardly aware of how its size increases on the horizon until it engulfs most of his vision. The sheet of fog conceals the entire coastline. Only a wide dock is visible, jutting out into the increasingly blue water. Its worn, grey planks glisten with the spray of the surf, the first steps toward the afterlife hidden in the nature of each individual soul.
They drop anchor and lower the gangplank. The other ghosts start making their way down, their expressionless faces appearing more solid in the light of this new sun. James looks down at his own hands on the rail and frowns when he sees how firmly they grip the wood beneath them. He lifts one of them. Its former grey-white sheen is fading, a new pinkish hue taking its place. He feels strength cradled within his folded fingers, rising from someplace inside him that he didn’t know still existed. Suddenly, he notices the mustard yellow sleeve covering his wrist. He hadn’t been aware of his uniform since before arriving here.
A pair of heavy boots shuffle behind him. He hadn’t even heard him approach. There is only one person who would come up to him at this of all moments, yet he doesn’t turn around, his eyes fixed on a frayed, golden thread sticking out from beside one of the buttons on the coat. It shivers in the breeze, long and fragile.
“Mr. Norrington,” Turner calls out.
James turns around slowly, acknowledging him with a small nod. Will Turner looks at him with a kind smile, his hair held back with a bandanna James hadn’t seen before. His appearance has changed so much, as had the light in his eyes. It’s sterner, more bitter, much like James’s own heart feels.
“I need your decision,” Turner says. “You can go ashore and seek your eternal rest or you can remain on the ship. I’d be more than happy to have you as part of the crew. You shouldn’t have died the way you did.”
James suspects that this is an apology for his father’s actions. The deep regret in Turner’s eyes confirms it.
He glances at his sleeve again, then lowers his arm. The deck is nearly empty of ghosts. The quiet footfalls on the gangplank will soon fade away and it shall be his turn. The hat on his head feels heavy. He takes it off, stares at the golden lace lining its border and throws it overboard, not bothering to look where it may fall. He tugs the wig off as well and feels his freed hair, the strands cool despite being imprisoned by the wig. Something stirs inside him, a whisper that rises into a sharp beat, calling out to him. He doesn’t want to go into the island, he knows this now.
Will watches him expectantly. James holds out his hand.
“ I suppose that it makes some sense for me to haunt the ship I died on,” James said, holding out his hand. “I accept your offer, Captain Turner.”
Turner shakes his hand, his smile widening, and James feels warmth seep through his body again.
Feedback and con-crit is greatly appreciated